


All That Remains

by HauntedByDayDreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Creature Castiel, Dean Winchester Teaches Castiel to be Human, Depressed Castiel, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fallen Angel Castiel, Freshly fallen Castiel, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Non-Hunter Winchesters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester at Stanford, The angels are at odds with humankind, Wingfic, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HauntedByDayDreams/pseuds/HauntedByDayDreams
Summary: Dean is just trying to save his brother from the ever-impending threat of the draft that threatens far worse things than death.Castiel is just trying to survive in these strange new circumstances he's been thrust into.The Angels just want their turn on Earth.//A fic wherein Dean unwittingly takes in the Seraph Castiel in the middle of a war between humans and angels.\\





	1. "Do not be angry with the rain. It simply does not know how to fall upwards." -Vladimir Nabokov

Dean takes a deep pull from his cup of now-cold coffee, squinting at the road with a sort of vindictive scowl. God, he hates these drives out into the middle of nowhere; after an hour he becomes almost hypnotised, the sparse scenery running together into one long blur like the USS Enterprise's warp speed. He especially despises it when he has to leave at such an obscene time to get back to work on before his morning shift starts. Bobby wasn't unfair, but he could turn into a real crotchety old man when he thinks Dean is shirking his responsibilities.

He catches sight of the crates of fruits and vegetables piled on the backseat in the rear-view mirror and Dean remembers why he's out here in the first place. Nowhere else can he purchase produce for such low prices; especially now that the rations have become even more restrictive. Dean salivates just at the thought of the apple pies Jess will bake with the apples, the peach cobblers. Sammy loves the salads, too, the nerd, though now Dean wouldn't turn his nose up at the offer. He can only survive off of cheap canned foods for so long, after all.

It's not exactly legal, going out of his way to buy straight from the country like this. People are rarely caught and it's even rarer for infantrymen stationed around the city to care. Though Dean could technically be charged with tax evasion if he's caught in a random search, he's much more likely to just have his things confiscated, served at the taker's house for dinner that evening.

Dean notices the windshield fogging up again and sighs, turning off the heater and flipping on the windshield wipers with a flick of his wrist. A dull squeak accompanies the slow crawl of the wipers across the glass, leaving tracks of water in their wake- Dean should really check on those. 

_Led Zeppelin_ filters through the speakers and he reaches for the volume's dial, leaning over the wheel to look up at the dark sky. Stars glitter like beacons far above him, winking down on planet earth like they're keyed in to some cosmic joke that humanity is blind to.

 _There are angels for every star in the sky, Dean,_ his mother used to tell him as she laid him to bed; she would pull the blankets tight around him, tucking them under his arms and legs like a cocoon. _They're watching over you and Sammy, keeping you safe._

Dean shudders. He's almost glad his mother isn't here to see how wrong she was.

When Dean pulls up in front of the shop, he's still got fifteen minutes before he is supposed to clock in. He uses that time to shuttle the three crates of goods up to his apartment, carefully avoiding jostling them to keep the softer fruits from bruising. On the final trip his foot catches on the edge of the sidewalk, a peach falling out from under the tarpaulin and rolling across the cement. Dean curses quietly under his breath, walking after it; it comes to a stop almost directly in front of a man quietly on a bench. He looks down at it, and Dean thinks he's going to pick it up, but instead he just stares at it. Keeps staring at it.

Dean tries not to pull a face as he sets the box down on the end of the bench and stoops to pick up the fruit, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the guy. _Dick._ Dropping it back into the box with the others, he again hefts the box and trudges up the stairs leading to his home over the shop.

Bobby had given him the space when he first started working there two years ago. "The way I see it," the old man had said as he twisted open a bottle of beer, "I'm not using it for anything other than storage, and it's about time I get ride of that junk anyway." When Dean had protested, saying that he couldn't just take it, Bobby had scoffed. "Balls," he said. "Help pay the electricity and water bill and I'll call it even."

Dean couldn't turn down an offer like that.

Shouldering open the front door, Dean steps inside and carefully deposits the crate onto the kitchen table along with the others. He's planning to go see Sammy in the morning, before he has to go to work, and he'll take his and Jessica's share with him when he goes.

Then he can have that talk with his brother he's been meaning to have for weeks. Dread's cold fingers lace through his rib-cage every time he even thinks about the damn draft.

A few minutes later Dean is sliding his card into the time slot, still managing to be three minutes late much to Bobby's chagrin, and with that his day starts. The automotive shop typically gets about five cars a day for oil changes and the like, but today they only get three. In between cars Dean and Bobby crack open a few cold ones and turn on the sports channel on the rickety old CRT television set mounted over the front desk. A rotating fan occasionally turns Dean's way to bless him with a gust of cool air- as the day progresses, it gets hotter and hotter in the confining shop- and ruffle a stack of papers held down by a stapler.

At one point the programming is interrupted by a news report on an attack in Minnesota- TWENTY-NINE DEAD, the bar at the bottom of the screen reads in bold lettering.

There is never any injured. Only casualties.

Of course, what really happens to those taken is in reality much worse.

Dean had just enough time to glimpse shaky cellphone footage of winged men sweeping down from the sky before Bobby grunts and clicks the TV off, waving the remote dismissively.

"'Nough of that," he says. Dean hears the tremors in his voice but politely doesn't comment on it. Instead he leaves to get them both another bottle of Margiekugel's.

When Dean clocks out at seven that night, he turns from where he is locking the office door to wave at the back of Bobby's old pickup truck. The man from earlier catches Dean's attention, still seated in the same position he'd last seen him. In fact, he looks as if he hasn't moved at all. Dean frowns, peering up at the sky, which is beginning to look overcast. Hopefully this guy's existential crisis ends soon and he'll go home.

Unless he's homeless. That's a possibility.

Dean shakes the notion from his head and returns to his apartment. He fixes himself dinner- Ravioli heated in an old saucepan- and sprawls out across the couch, paging through one of his magazines as he eats. When he's done he showers, staying in after he's clean until the water begins to chill and the mirrors are obscured with steam. As he's toweling off his hair, Dean hears the low rumble of thunder nearby and the patter of rain begins on the roof.

Dean pulls down on the blinds with a finger, peering outside in the darkness. Illuminated under the fluorescent flicker of a streetlight, the stranger still sits on the bench, head tilted up at the sky as if to receive the rain. _Shit._ There was no way he wasn't going to get sick at this rate, and Dean was seriously starting to doubt the guy had anywhere else to go. If he did, Dean reasoned, he surely wouldn't be choosing to sit under an open sky whilst being drenched.

As tempting as it was to brusquely say, "Not my responsibility," and push all thoughts of the trench-coat wearing stranger from his mind, that just wasn't how Dean had been raised. "Always try to do good in a world that loves doing bad," his dad used to tell him.

Dean sighs and goes to get his coat.

The rain is the kind that falls hard and cold and soaks through your clothes in an instant. Dean hurries down the stairs as quickly as he dares, one hand keeping his hood pulled lower over his face and the other keeping hold on the banister. Dean has slipped in the rain before, and he isn't keen to repeat the experience. It'd been embarrassing enough for it to have happened at all, but nothing came close to Sam's gleeful chortle when he'd had to explain why he was limping.

"Hey. _Hey._ " Dean is a heartbeat away from putting a hand on the man's shoulder before he reconsiders and instead rounds the bench to the front, giving the stranger a wide berth. The yellow light makes the man's skin look sallow and sickly; he has a stern face, all cheekbones and scruff, eyebrows knitted together in slight consternation over piercing blue eyes underlined with soft wrinkles. His dark hair is matted down by the rain, bangs plastered to his forehead. Dean can't tell if it's brown or black in this light.

He peers up at him almost impassively, but there's a shine of curiosity in his eyes. He squints, tilts his head to the side, and Dean realises he's waiting for him to speak.

"You, uh- you've gotta be cold." _Wow, way to state the obvious,_ he thinks to himself. _Next you can ask him if he knows it's raining_. "Where- do you have somewhere to stay?" Dean has to raise his voice to be heard above the sound of rain falling heavy as bullets against the sidewalks and street.

Blue eyes scrape against his, and Dean almost misses the imperceptible shake of his head. Is he mute? High? Depressed? Dean can't tell, and he's beginning to regret coming out here at all.

"Do you..." Dean hesitates. He doesn't know this man; for all he knows, he could be a murderer. A thief. Insane. He seems to be a vagrant for sure. For some reason, though, Dean is inclined to believe none of those things are true. His gut instincts are rarely wrong. "Do you want to come inside, get dried up, maybe..." He pauses. "Stay the night, if you need to?"

The man looks at him for a long moment, then turns to survey the building behind him. He must have seen Dean entering and leaving throughout the day. The thought of this silent man watching him is unnerving.

Then he looks back to Dean, lips parting, and Dean leans forward to hear him over the sound of the rain.

"That would be preferable."

His voice is a rumble, much lower than Dean expected, and his words have a strange lilt to them, favouring the consonants over the vowels. It takes Dean a moment to process that yes, he'd just spoken, and yes, he'd taken up his offer.

_Damn it._

The man stands and follows Dean wordlessly; on the stairs he doesn't even hold on to the railing, just keeps his arms by his sides the way they have been this whole time. When they get inside, Dean shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on a rack by the door. The stranger just stands in the foyer, dripping water onto the floor and blinking owlishly in the light. Inside Dean can see that his skin is creamy and pale and the lines around his eyes are less defined. 

"Um. Yeah you're really wet. The bathroom is through here." Dean leads him to the hallway, where the man steps into the dark bathroom and simply stands. Dean frowns, flicking on the light switch for him. This guy was definitely odd. "I'll get you a towel."

When he comes back, the man is standing where Dean left him, staring at his sopping wet reflection in the mirror. Dean noticed that he didn't seem to have any bags or other luggage with him so he'd also brought him a set of old clothes that he hadn't worn in years, estimating them to be about the same size.

The blue-eyed stranger accepts them thanklessly and pulls the door shut.

_Well._

Dean shuffles in place for a moment before walking into his bedroom and dropping heavily onto his bed. Sam would talk his head off in the morning when he told him about this, and- _shit_ , he hadn't even thought about that. He couldn't just leave the guy here while he was away, could he? God, he'd just allowed a potentially dangerous, potentially crazy stranger into his home. He hadn't even thought to ask for a name. Had he? Dean thought back to outside on the street; the only thing the man had spoken was his compliance. Wasn't that strange in-and-of itself? 

While he was thinking about it, someone really needed to teach him social etiquette.

Dean turns his thoughts towards the possible reasons for such a solemn-looking man to be sitting on the side of the road with nowhere to go and nothing with him. Maybe he'd gotten kicked out of his home (a possibility). Maybe he'd just been released from the hospital after a terrible accident (unlikely).

Dean frowns, a furrow appearing between his brows as he glances towards the hall. Maybe he was running from the draft.

It would make sense, and seemed the much likelier of his explanations. Many people were on the lam these days, too scared to show up at the recruiting center and likely give up their lives for a lost cause. Maybe he was taciturn because he didn't want to give anything away, or because he didn't know what to say. It would also explain why he couldn't go back to his home, wherever that may be. Dean is feeling pretty assured in his theory until he remembers that the man had nothing with him; if someone was going to go on the run, wouldn't they bring a bag full of clothes at the least?

 _Or_ , maybe he was a killer who'd just escaped from prison.

Whoever he may be, he was out of the bathroom. Dean heard the door click open and rolled off of the bed, shoes hitting the floor with a thump. The man was waiting by the door, light in the bathroom still on and door wide open. Attentive blue eyes are detracted from an old family picture hanged on the wall as Dean approaches, and for the first time Dean notices the tension in his shoulders, the wooden way he holds himself. He just might be as wary of Dean as Dean is of him. It's an odd thought, considering he'd just spent the last few minutes surmising that his abrupt visitor could potentially be a murderer.

He also notices that though the man is wearing Dean's clothes- a baggy grey _AC/DC_ shirt over some old sweats that are missing a drawstring- he's donned his tan trench-coat over them, and it's _dry_. Did he use the hairdryer that's in there for Jess when she and Sam visit? He hadn't heard it going, but it's a strange question to ask so he leaves it be.

"Here's the guest bedroom. It's messy, and I've got a lot of my crap in there. Usually just use it for storage when my brother isn't here." Dean hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry, but what's your name? It hasn't come up yet."

The man gives Dean a hard look, one hard to interpret. Several seconds tick by before he responds. "Jimmy," he finally says. "Jimmy Novak," he clarifies at an inquisitive glance from Dean.

Dean bites his lower lip. "Can I see identification?" He feels like a jerk for asking, but it was definitely suspicious how slowly Jimmy relinquished his name. Those seconds could have easily been enough time to fish for an alias.

Another adage his father had imparted with Dean: trust no one.

Especially if it's some random guy you lifted off the street. 

Jimmy frowns, then slips a hand into one of the coat's inside pockets and pulls out a brown leather wallet. He flips it open and hands it to Dean. Sure enough, there is a picture of him, albeit seemingly much happier, smiling alongside the name "James Novak." Dean grins sheepishly as he hands the wallet back, shrugging dismissively. 

"Can't be too careful."

If Jimmy minded, he doesn't let on. He doesn't let on much of anything.

Dean extends his hand after a moment, forcing a smile. "Dean Winchester. If you need anything, I'll be in that room right down the hall." Jimmy stares at his outstretched hand, but not haughtily; more quizzically. Dean is about to drop his arm and say "to hell with politeness" but then Jimmy gingerly takes his hand in his own. Blue eyes meld against green as Jimmy seems to see right through him, searching and prodding inside his head. Dean knows he's imagining it but it's unnerving all the same, and he breaks eye contact a moment later.

"Thank you for letting me stay here," Jimmy says as they drop hands and Dean turns to open the door. He seems to have found the idea for it somewhere in Dean's eyes, and it is unrehearsed and foreign on his lips. _Guy seems really uncouth,_ Dean thinks, _but it could be just that he's having a rough time of it. Everyone's been there. Hell, I've been there._

"It's not a problem," Dean says, smiling at him warmly. The corners of Jimmy's lips twitch like he might be about to attempt a smile back, but his mouth remains in an inexpressive line. His gaze seems almost softer now, though, and Dean wonders idly what changed. Maybe Dean had just misread him.

"Regardless, it is... a much nicer alternative to sitting in the rain."

Dean itches to ask him why he was there in the first place, but he knows better than to ask like this. More likely than not, he won't get the answer he wants. Even likelier, the stranger will refuse to answer at all. Maybe he could try to ask in the morning, over some breakfast. He's sure the man must be starving, and Dean has been wanting to make bacon omelets for a few days.

Before Dean can anything else, Jimmy slips into the room and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More and more questions will be answered with every chapter! I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to know what you think!


	2. "Time moves slowly, but passes quickly."- Alice Walker

Castiel stands in the middle of the bedroom, his back turned to the mirror affixed to the wall and neck craning to glimpse his reflection. His trench coat and shirt lie discarded on the bed, along with his angel blade. It felt good to have them off, to have the weight, however slight, that had been pressing to his fresh wounds removed- even though the shirt had clung to the congealed blood as he peeled it off. Even with that little bit of relief, though, nothing could completely take the pain away.

Looking at the shredded tissue of his back, his eyes fixated on the two long gashes where the barest sliver of incongruous bone protrude like splinters from his shoulder blades, he reaches back with his fingers splayed. His hand hesitates just above one of the wounds; a furrow forms between his brows as he clenches his jaw and gingerly touches it. Fiery pain erupts almost instantly, phantom pains twisting the muscles of his back as he gasps and jerks his hand away. He drops to his knees, back arching as he touches his forehead to the floor, panting through his teeth. The warmth of his grace buzzing at his fingertips gradually recesses as he decides not to try to heal himself- not yet.

The pain is as visceral as it is physical.

Castiel slowly straightens up, his shoulders rolling forward to let his hands fall into his lap as his eyes trail Heavenward. The arcing pains in his shoulders gradually begins to subside, but with its absence comes new waves of grief and anger. 

_I did nothing to deserve this._

The echo of his own thoughts is still a fairly new and unpleasant sensation to the angel. Castiel, like all angels, had been connected to Heaven's Host since the day of his creation. This meant he'd never had a moment to himself, silence to himself- thought to himself. His mind was always filled to burst with the rejoicing of his brethren, the songs of his sisters.

When they'd fallen, the cries of dismay and confusion had been overwhelming.

It had always given the angels a sense of belonging and companionship impossible for them to find in any other way. Yet, above all else, the chatter had kept Castiel distracted, unable to sink into his own private thoughts; very rarely did he have an opportunity to analyse his own doubts and misgivings. Very rarely did he think for himself at all.

 _Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have been ostracised. Abandoned._ Separated.

 _No._ Castiel shakes away that thought almost at once. He'd been doomed from the start; a victim of bad design, or maybe he'd just come off the conveyor belt at the angel factory damaged. Whatever it was that made Castiel different was also responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong in his many, many years. No amount of second-guessing could have saved him from his fate.

Castiel isn't sure how long he sits there on the floor, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and bizarre new emotions that he could hardly begin to decipher. Once you started thinking, it was hard to stop. _Maybe that's why humans are always so caught up in their own heads,_ Castiel thinks to himself. _They're just trying to fill up the silence._

On top of that, Castiel doesn't yet understand human time-keeping methods. For a being that has lived through millennia, he finds it disconcerting that humans should be so infatuated with keeping up with each individual day; much less the hours.

Still, he estimates it to have been a few hours, judging by the first rays of sunlight spilling into his room through the cracks in the blinds, when Dean the human knocks at his door.

"Jimmy? You awake?"

Ah, that's right. Jimmy Novak, the man whom this vessel had previously belonged. A pang of some emotion Castiel can't identify reverberates through his chest. He couldn't have given Dean his own name, as he was fairly sure a name like "Castiel" would be fairly conspicuous in a world where angels were feared.

Instead of answering, Castiel stands and walks to the door, pulling it open just wide enough that he is standing eye-to-eye with the human. Dean, startled but quick to regain his composure, smiles at him. Castiel notices idly that the human is trying very hard not to let his gaze fall to his bare chest. Was it customary that humans put on clothes before addressing one another? He doesn't know, but it hardly matters to him one way or another.

"Right, um, good morning then. I was going to tell you that I fixed up some breakfast, if you're interested." An unfamiliar smell wafts down the hall, and Castiel tilts his head to the side in puzzlement. 

"What is that?"

Dean immediately seems to perk up, although Castiel doesn't know why. "That's my omelets- with _bacon_. They're really good, if I do say so myself. And I do. Gonna try some?" 

Castiel doesn't need to eat for sustenance- at least, not _yet_ , anyway- but he is tempted to try human food. Something about the light in Dean's bright green eyes seems to insist that he should, as well.

"Yes." He closes the door and turns to put back on his shirt and coat.

Castiel never was an angel of many words by anyone's account.

When the angel enters the kitchen, Dean is seated at the table with his back towards him dressed only in a t-shirt and thin cotton bottoms. He turns when he hears Castiel approach and arches a brow when he sees that he's again donned the trench coat. Castiel realises suddenly that this is likely odd behaviour, wearing it indoors and to breakfast like this, but he can't be bothered with that right now. Not only does it disguise the jagged remainder of bones tenting up from beneath his shirt, but he's also becomes moderately attached to the thing.

"Take a seat," Dean says between a mouthful of yellow eggs, pointing the tines of his fork at the chair opposite him. Castiel obeys, sitting down and holding himself with the same rigidity and grace that he conducted himself with when he was with his brothers. Dean looks at him expectantly, fork laden with eggs halfway to his mouth, and Castiel blinks down at his own plate. The omelet is a crescent moon of fluffy yellow with broken pieces of what he remembers Dean calling bacon scattered throughout. He delicately holds the fork between his index finger and thumb, carving off a small piece and bringing it to his mouth.

Castiel fights to keep his expression neutral as the flavour floods his mouth. It's very disappointing.

It isn't, he assumes at once, that the human isn't a very good cook, or that the food wouldn't taste very good to anyone else. It's that he can taste the very makeup of the food, the molecules of the eggs and meat and it's positively overwhelming. The angel masticates the bite between his teeth, moves it around with his tongue, and swallows.

"Well?" The human is looking at him again, and something about his expression makes Castiel soften. His green eyes are round and alight; a wash of freckles dots at his nose and cheeks; a thin layer of stubble wraps around lips quirking upwards at the corners. _For such simplistic design,_ Castiel thinks, _His Creation is certainly beautiful._ It takes the angel a few seconds to realise the question being asked of him; _Well, how is it?_

"It's..." Castiel falters, unsure how someone would normally handle this situation. He'd been about to blurt out his actual opinion, explain the molecular composition wasn't in and of itself tasty, but something in Dean's expression made him reconsider. He finally decides on "It's very well made," and punctuates it with a perfunctory "thank you."

Dean beams at him, and Castiel resigns himself to eating the rest of the dish, lest he be found lying. He feels the human's eyes on him as he finishes and looks up to return the stare; Dean seems uncomfortable to have been caught, quickly averting his gaze.

"So, uh, I have to go out today. I'm going to see my little brother." He pauses and Castiel nods mutely. "I'm hoping that I can trust you enough to leave you alone for a few hours. Right?"

Castiel has to search Dean's thoughts for clarification.

"I won't steal anything," Castiel nods. Dean looks taken aback for a moment only to relax and grin a moment later.

"That's what a thief would say." He stands to take his plate to the sink, leaning across the table to grab Castiel's as he goes. Castiel isn't sure where to look so he turns eyes eyes down to the graining of the wooden table, studying the asymmetrical lines and loops. Dean bustles about the kitchen, throwing pans and dishes and cups in the sink and sweeping out of the room only to reappear minutes later dressed in a pair of jeans and a flannel. He begins busing boxes of fresh produce out the front door, likely putting them in his car. 

"Well, I've got to head out," Dean says. He picks up the last crate- too late, Castiel wonders if he should have offered to help carry them- and casts a last glance around the room. Castiel follows his gaze and when he looks back Dean is staring at him. "I'll be back in a few hours," Dean says, readjusting his hold on the fruit. "If you get hungry there's some leftover rotisserie chicken in the fridge, and I've left some apples and things in the bowl by the oven. The TV remote is on the arm of the couch." Dean hesitates, perhaps wondering if Castiel will even be there when he gets back. His next statement confirms this. "If you go out, please lock the door behind you."

Castiel nods to all of this, and he watches as Dean smiles at him again- do all humans smile this much?- and then finally leaves, pulling the door shut behind him with his knee. Castiel goes to the window and watches him drive the loud black vehicle away.

Castiel sighs and returns to his seat at the kitchen table.

Alone with his thoughts once again.

He may not understand the way humans track time, but now he can truly appreciate the length of an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought!  
> Sam enters in the next chapter.


	3. "All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will mainly start setting up things to come in later chapters, as well as continuing the trend of slowly unraveling the intricacies of this world. Hope you enjoy!

"You trying out for the part of Rapunzel in a school play? God, Sam, your hair is out of control."

Sam shakes his head although he's grinning, the subsequent peal of laughter lightening Dean's heart in a way that only his brother's happiness can. Sam looks good; he looks healthy and radiant. Stanford has been good for him, regardless of Dean's many misgivings in the beginning. It's accomplished the one thing Dean never could growing up- it's made him happy.

 _I should've put weights on Sammy's head when he was little. Kid's enormous._ Indeed, Sam was nearly gargantuan in height compared to even his brother, who was by no means a short man. Dean would have had to look up to meet his eyes had they been standing.

"Jess sent me with gifts," Sam says. Dean immediately perks up, knowing by "gifts" Sam is referring to the apple pie Sam's girlfriend, Jessica, often bakes for him. The first time Dean had visited the two in their new apartment she had fed him so many pastries that Dean fell asleep on the couch ten minutes later, drooling on the armrest.

"How is she?" Dean asks as he manages to catch the attention of one of the bartenders, a woman with shoulder-length blond hair named Ellen. She smiles at him, creases around her eyes and mouth deepening, wiping her hands down the front of her jeans mouthing "just a moment." Sam and Dean often met up at the Roadhouse for food and a beer, and as regulars they'd become well acquainted with Ellen and her daughter, Jo. Ellen was a hard woman, from hard circumstances and harder times, but the Winchesters loved her, rough-edged affections included.

"Hell of a woman," Bobby had once told Dean about her, "but she'll shoot you as soon as talk to you."

"Um, she's- we're good," Sam says, looking down at the counter with a small smile that doesn't go unnoticed by his brother. "Really good. She's really been helping me this semester, pushing me through, helping me study. I'm still pretty sure she's single-handedly the reason I even passed the Bar."

He feels like a jerk, but Dean feels a pang of jealousy at this. It's always been Dean's job to take care of his little brother, a sense of responsibility that he'd come to hold almost sacred in the years since their mother burned in a house-fire in Lawrence. Dean likes Jess. Hell, she's almost family at this point; but protecting Sam, helping him, is something that he'll always feel entitlement to, as if it's a privilege and not a burden. 

Regardless, Jess makes Sam happy, and Dean really couldn't ask for more of a person. Plus she bakes him pies. That's automatic Brownie Points right there, and she knows it.

"Have you talked her into getting that dog you wanted?"

Sam scrunches his nose. "Not exactly. Now she wants a cat."

"A _cat?_ " His lip curls with disdain and Sam sighs defeatedly.

"I know. She keeps arguing that they're self-sufficient and require half as much care as a dog, but I don't know. They're just- I don't like them."

"Hate the frizzy little things," Dean agreed, folding his arms on the bar.

"Yeah, but you're allergic."

"Do I need any other reason?"

Ellen approaches then, still wiping out a whiskey glass with muted white rag and a fond smile plastered across her lips. Sam and Dean both turn to grin at her.

"Hey, Ellen."

"Sam, Dean. It's been awhile. I was starting to worry you'd started buying your booze someplace else."

"Just been busy," Sam clarifies, discreetly glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. "Haven't been able to come down as much lately."

"Not near enough, if you want my opinion. What can I get you boys?"

Sam and Dean both order a beer along with their burgers and fries. While Sam orders, down the bar Dean catches sight of a drunken man slurring incoherently to Jo, who seems to be doing her best to ignore him as she stacks dirty dishes onto a tray. Dean glances at his watch. 11:34. _It's a little early to be on a bender._

"So, what were you texting me about last night? Something about somebody spending the night?"

 _Shit_ , Dean had almost forgotten. He wondered what Jimmy was doing at that moment, if he he was raiding his fridge or had already taken off. Maybe he was sleeping. If the sounds of footsteps and shuffling emitting from his room last night were any indication, his visitor had had a restless night.

"Yeah. Um, his name's Jimmy. Novak."

"Never heard of him," Sam said, thanking Ellen as she set a beer and a plate of food in front of him.

"Neither had I, before last night."

Sam splutters on his drink, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring incredulously at his brother. "You let a guy you don't know sleep in your house? Dean, that's how murders happen. You're not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, let alone let 'em bunk up with you."

Dean had expected Sam's reaction, but he wasn't any less annoyed by it. "Dude was outside in the cold. Get off my ass."

Sam huffs at him, his expression clearly displaying his dissent. His lips were pursed, brows pulled into a hard line over his eyes. His bitch-face, as Dean affectionately dubbed it. "Well, where'd you drop him off at?" Dean hesitates and averts his gaze, taking a long drink from his beer. "What?" Sam presses.

"He's, uh. He's still at my place."

" _What_?"

"Are you hard of hearing? I said he's still at my apartment." He picks up the ketchup bottle and squirts a liberal heaping onto his plate with a wet squelch.

"I can't believe you sometimes, man."

"Well it's not like I even have anything for the guy to steal," Dean scoffs. "Television set from the Reagan administration and a few of those mini shampoos I stole from a hotel. I could cope if they went missing."

Sam opens his mouth- no doubt to retort with some of his own brand of snark- when the drunkard Dean had noticed a few minutes earlier begins screaming at the man next to him. Staggering out of his chair, he points an accusing finger at no one in particular, eyes bulging and red-rimmed.

"Damn angelsss an' damn draft! Damn them all! I have a life!" He violently shrugs off one man in a sports coat has laid on his shoulder. "Geroff me!" The other man whispers something to him and for the first time the drunk seems to stack account of the twenty-plus patrons witnessing the scene he's making. Something in his expression crumples, his shoulders sagging. "Okay, okay, I'm gone." He stumbles towards the front door, aided heavily by the good samaritan at his side.

For a moment the bar is very nearly silent. Sam is suddenly intently studying the label on the back of his beer bottle. Dean swallows thickly, spinning on the stool so that his legs and torso face his brother. Sam purposefully avoids eye contact but it does little to deter him.

"Sam..."

"Dean, not now. Let's just enjoy our food, okay?"

"If not now, when?" Sam shakes his head, but Dean barrels on, desperate, his temples throbbing with anxiety-induced adrenaline. "Eventually you could be drafted. You know what happens next? Either you spend the next two years God knows where doing God knows what, or you become angel chow. Or both. Neither are good options. Just be smart here, Sam."

"And evading the draft is being smart?" Sam's voice is a fierce whisper. "Dean, I'm not going to enroll for another semester and go even further in debt just because you're afraid I might have my name drawn-"

"Woah, wait, and you're not afraid?" Dean interjects heatedly. A couple at a table nearby startle at his outburst.

"No, Dean, I'm not."

"Well that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You should be." Dean fights to keep his voice steady. His brother couldn't become another casualty barely making the news' ticker bar. Sam is all he has. He takes a deep breath and steels himself. "I'm just saying, you were already considering furthering your degree. Why not do it now? Think of being exempted from the draft as just a bonus."

"Dean..." Sam's eyes are soft, unguarded, and Dean knows enough to take advantage of the moment while he can.

Dean lays a hand on his brother's arm, catching his eyes with his own. "Just, think about it. Please."

Sam sighs, a shock of brown hair falling into his face as he turns away. "Okay."

They drink in silence after that.

~~~

"Jimmy?" Dean kicks the front door closed with his heel, Jess's homemade pie clutched in his hands. He deposits it on the kitchen counter, shrugging out of his jacket as he peers into the living room. Jimmy's name dies on his lips as he catches sight of him seated in front of the television set.

 _So he's still here then._ Dean wonders exactly how long the guy plans to stay. He doesn't mind, if he continues not to be any trouble, but it seems like the sort of thing he should know.

When he enters the room, Jimmy slowly straightens up, pulling his gaze away from the screen even more slowly. He's still wearing that damn coat, for whatever reason. Dean's eyes flick to the TV, tuned in to DWW2, a local news station. A picture of a man- no, not a man any longer- with ten-foot grey wings sprouting from his back. 

"After all, they must have a weakness of some kind, some sort of way to kill them," the news anchor, a petite young brunette, is insisting vigorously. "We've found bodies, angels with holes in their chest and wings burnt into the ground. Something had to have killed them."

"Renee, that was angel-on-angel violence. For all we know, their own kind are the only ones who can hurt them."

"Why would they be turning on each other in the first place?"

"Another question to add to the pile. If you're going to ask that, you might as well reiterate all the other still unanswered questions, like, why are they taking people? What is their plan, and why are some rejected by their hosts' bodies? We don't have answers, and the government isn't giving us much to go on, despite spending our tax dollars on fruitless studies." The man, who the bar across the bottom of the screen identifies as expert Rupert Matthews, drags his arm across his sweating forehead. "We know nothing except what we can see happening every day."

"But if you had to guess?"

"Well..." Matthews pauses, then looks away from the camera. When he speaks again, his tone is conspiratorial, leaning in towards the camera as though divulging one of his best-kept secrets. "It almost seems as though they're searching for something."

Dean takes a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth as he bends at the waist to turn off the television. He can only take so much talk of angels in a day. He's already in a foul mood from his conversation with Sam, and listening to theoretical blabber about angels is the sugar-free frosting on a chalky, dry cake. When he faces Jimmy, the man is staring at him, blue eyes intense and wide.

"You shouldn't bother watching that garbage," Dean says. " _They_ don't even know what they're talking about half the time." He expects Jimmy to say little, as he has so far, or just nod his assent or something of that nature. He's wrong.

"Your government chooses men and women to present to the angels like offerings so that their own comfortable lives are not interrupted. Do you agree?"

Dean blinks. "I guess." _Did he say_ your _government?_

Jimmy turns and stares at the blank screen. "What do the selected believe they're being used for?"

Dean suddenly feels very uncomfortable, which makes him irritable. He shouldn't feel like he's being interrogated in his own home. "I dunno," he snaps, "maybe trying to save all our necks."

Jimmy nods to himself, as if this is the answer he expected, making Dean frown. He's about to say something that he very well might regret but narrowly catches himself. Jimmy's neutral expression makes Dean think that he likely wasn't trying to upset or offend him; he just seemed to lack a certain smoothness in his interactions that usually comes with time.

Besides, if he'd really been drafted, like Dean still suspects, it would explain the sour feelings towards the system. Dean certainly wasn't a fan, himself. He himself could be drafted any day.

Trying to lighten the mood, even though he seems to be the only one affected, Dean says, "You sound like you'd make a great barber, or taxi driver. When I'm catching a ride home after one-too-many at a bar, the last thing I want is some kook's opinion on the moon landing being a hoax or the president secretly being an alien." Jimmy tilts his head to the side inquisitively and Dean sighs. "Never mind." He turns and walks into the kitchen, and Dean hears the swish of the trench coat behind him after a moment. "Speaking of jobs, what do you do?" It's as good a segue as any to obtain more information about the guy sleeping his spare bedroom.

"I..." Jimmy pauses, and Dean glances over his shoulder at him as he reaches into his cabinets to retrieve some plates. Jimmy has stiffened, normally placid expression hard. "I sold adtime for a radio company," he says finally.

Sold. Past tense. Dean is aching to know what events transpired in this guy's life that left him in the rain in front of an auto shop.

Dean drops two styrofoam plates (because he's single and lives alone, so why splurge on something you have to wash?) onto the bar, grabs a knife out of the sink, and slices the pie into eight pieces. Jimmy watches him silently, and when Dean starts to lower another piece onto the second plate, he interrupts, saying he doesn't want a piece.

"Your loss," Dean shrugs, dropping the second slice onto his own plate.

Kicking his shoes off on his way into the living room, he plops onto the couch and grabs the remote from where Jimmy has left it on the arm. Jimmy hovers nearby until Dean pats the cushion beside him, inviting him to sit down, which he does. Ignoring social cues, as he seems wont to do, Jimmy sits directly beside him instead of at the far end of the couch. Dean notices, not for the first time, the gracefulness and dignity with which Jimmy conducts himself- how a guy like that ends up in a situation like this he still hasn't discovered.

"You ever watch _Dr. Sexy M.D._?" Dean asks, grinning as he turns back on the television and flips to the right channel. Three minutes until it comes on. He mutes it, not wanting to have to sit through the end of whatever rom-com precedes it.

"No," Jimmy says, looking intrigued. "I haven't heard of it."

Dean gapes at him with a mouth full of pie. "Seriously?" he asks thickly. "Dude, just you wait. It's awesome." He swallows and winces. "Well, it's kind of cliche and cheesy, but it's still a winner," he amends.

Jimmy doesn't look convinced but doesn't move to leave. "Okay."

An hour and four slices of pie later, Dean is lazily sprawled on the couch, legs splayed and arms behind his head, empty plate laying on his lap. Jimmy sits next to him, posture hunched as he rests his elbows on his knees. 

"Why does that woman see ghosts?"

"I don't know," Dean says, too comfortably full to mind the interruption. "She was born that way."

"Is it customary to perform intercourse in broom closets?"

Dean sniggers. "Only when you don't want to be caught."

"Why does the doctor wear boots in a hospital?"

 _Because he's Doctor_ Sexy, Dean thinks. "Why do you wear a coat indoors?" Jimmy doesn't seem to have a reply for that and quiets for the remaining duration of the episode. The credits roll and Jimmy still looks perplexed. He seems to be considering the convoluted storyline with the same careful consideration as someone contemplating the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.

"Did you like it?" Dean asks carefully, clicking off the television once more. He stands and stretches, his jaw popping and eyes watering as he yawns.

"I'm not sure," Jimmy says bluntly, prompting an abrupt laugh from Dean.

"It'll grow on you, I promise. Show's great."

"It seems to be about physicians who take more pleasure in hedonism than caring for their charges."

"I didn't say it had moral integrity, just that it was fun to watch." Dean shoots Jimmy a toothy grin and is pleased when he receives a closed-lipped smile in return. Maybe the guy is finally loosening up? He thinks he could stand to earn a few more smiles like that.

When Dean tells Jimmy goodnight and slips into bed that night, then and only then does it dawn on him they still haven't discussed the length of Jimmy's stay.

~~~

When Castiel slips into his room, he sits on the bed and meditates, attempting unsuccessfully to reach other angels through thought. During the night, his thoughts are frequently interrupted by thoughts of the scent of cherry pie, the lingering smell of gasoline, and the colour green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I hope to have the next chapter up soon.


	4. "If you've a story, make sure it's a whole one, with details close to hand. It's the difference between a good lie and getting caught." ~Tamora Pierce

"It's been four days."

Dean rolls his eyes skyward as he wipes his greasy hands on his thighs and slams down the hood of the old Cadillac. "I'm aware."

"You don't even know the guy. Why you so hell-bent on helping him out, like he's a stray dog?"

Dean leans against the wall, pursing his lips and eyeing Bobby as he continues to wipe his hands and forearms off on the dingy rag he's pulled from his waistband. The older man is frowning, eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat; Dean can almost feel the heat radiating from his intense glare. The last time Bobby had been giving him the first degree like this he'd had a tryst with a customer's daughter.

"I happen to like the nerdy little guy," Dean shrugs. "It's been nice having someone else around the house, even if he doesn't talk a lot." Jimmy mostly amused himself with the television when Dean was gone- Dean had started the guy on an unintended slippery slope by introducing him to late-nights dramas- but when Dean was home he would often trail behind him, like a ghost, punctuating the comfortable silence with random queries or things he'd noticed in the span of the day. Dean would listen, amused, to the ramblings about the disappearances of the bees, a problem he'd seen stressed in a docu-drama, or carefully steer him away from the Skinimax channels when he started asking about the relationship between a certain scantily clad babysitter and her pizza delivery man.

"About that," Bobby presses on, wheels on his wheelchair spinning as he pushes himself closer. "For this Jimmy character to know so much about you, you don't know a lot about him."

Damn. He has a point. Dean, of course, chooses not to acknowledge it. "I know enough."

"Did you know he has a wife and a kid?"

Dean swallows, reeling with the news; suddenly the floor doesn't feel so solid beneath his feet. "No, I didn't know that." He looks up sharply at Bobby, eyes narrowing accusingly. "Did you investigate the guy?"

"Some loony stranger shacking up with my boy? Don't be daft, 'course I did." Bobby wheels himself over to the cooler, grabbing himself a beer and tossing another to Dean, who catches it expertly. "The rest of his story checks out, and you were right about the draft thing. His poor wife thinks he's MIA."

Dean feels slightly unwell, though he isn't sure why; he'd suspected as much, but the news that Jimmy was married was, well, news. "Did you tell her the truth?"

"Hell no I didn't tell her the truth. Think I'm heartless? It'd break her heart to find out her "brave and selfless" husband was slumming it up avoiding the draft instead of contacting her or actually going to war." Bobby took a swig of the drink and wiped the back of his mouth on his sleeve. "She kept telling me that God would bring him home. Can you believe that? After all this mess, people are still praying."

"Some people cope in different ways than others," Dean says with a nod to his beer. Bobby squints. "Anyway, that makes sense actually, because Jimmy prays a lot. At least, I assume that's what he's doing- I'll catch him sometimes just sitting there, head bowed, face all screwed up like he's trying to remember the phone number for the Chinese takeout place."

"I'm just saying, you need to be careful who you're letting in your house-" Bobby catches sight of someone past Dean's shoulder and quiets.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean startles, turning almost guiltily to Jimmy. "Hey, man, what're you doing down here?" Jimmy rarely- if ever- has left the house in the time he's been there. Maybe he had an allergy for fresh air and social interaction.

Jimmy shifts, plainly uncomfortable under Bobby's reproachful stare. He eyes a smudge on the wall just past Dean. "Your brother, Sam, called. Said something about an interview- he told me it could wait, but he wanted to talk to you."

"An interview- kid got the job, didn't he?" Dean excitedly tosses the rag on the cooler top as he passes, slipping into the office. He pops his head back out, glancing between the two. Jimmy is still loitering, looking unsure of himself.

"I'm gonna make a quick call. Bobby, be nice. You can stay if you want, Jimmy."

Bobby looks like he wants to say something, maybe protest, but a quick glance at Jimmy and his gaze softens, if only marginally.

"Just hurry it up. You're on my time until Charlie gets here."

For the next few minutes, Dean patiently listens, phone receiver pressed to his ear between his cheek and shoulder, as Sam rambles on and on about the internship he'd gotten at a local firm, and _yes it was unpaid, but it put him in good standing with some very influential people, and this would be good for him_ -

Dean's been dutifully listening for nearly four minutes when the call is interrupted. A commotion from outside, Bobby's cry of, "Shit!" and the honk of a car horn from outside sends a chill down Dean's spine. "Sam, I gotta go," he says quickly before slamming down the phone and rushing outside. Bobby is frantically wheeling himself out of the shop, and Dean sees the swish of the trench coat as Jimmy runs towards the street where several other people are migrating. A young girl lays prone in the middle of the road at the bumper of a blue sedan.

Dean catches a glimpse of fiery red hair spilling across the pavement.

His heart sinking into his stomach, he sprints towards the road.

Jimmy beats everyone else there; kneeling over her, he cradles Charlie's head in his hands and presses two fingers to her temple, likely checking for a pulse. She isn't moving. Dean can see the bright crimson brushstrokes of blood across the left side of her face, down her neck, staining her grey Super-Woman tee, her knee twisted awkwardly to the side-

Dean slows his pace in shock as she sits up with a gasp, then redoubles his speed. He crouches next to her just as Jimmy stands.

"Charlie. Charlie! Hey, hey look at me. Focus on me. You alright? Where does it hurt?" The driver of the car that hit her, along with a few curious pedestrians, are crowding around. A few have their phones pointed at them, recording the scene. The clips will likely air on the nightly news. Dean flips them the bird before returning his attention to the flustered girl, who is pulling herself out of his grasp.

"Dean! Dean, I'm fine, let me go."

"You're in shock," one man says, "look at the blood."

"I'm _fine_ ," insists Charlie, and before Dean can stop her she is pushing herself to her feet. She stands, wavering a bit to be sure, but she stands nonetheless; and now Dean notices that her injured leg is fine, as well. She looks around at the chattering and questioning crowd, her dark eyes wide, as if seeing them for the first time.

"The hell..?" Dean stares at her in shock. Charlie blinks and hovers a hesitant hand over her cheek before pressing gingerly at the blood. Her fingers come away red.

"I don't understand- it doesn't hurt. There's not even-"

At that moment Jimmy reasserts his presence by moaning and swaying violently on his feet. Dean pitches forward to catch him in his arms before he hits the ground; the man sags into his embrace as Dean holds up a free hand to make sure Charlie is steady enough to stand on her own.

"Jimmy, what happened? You okay, man?"

Jimmy murmurs something about having an aversion to blood and peels himself off of Dean. Charlie gapes at him.

"This is Jimmy?"

Jimmy doesn't seem to notice her bright-eyed expression, or the annoyed look Dean shoots her when she waggles her eyebrows suggestively at him. Leaning in close, he whispers in the mechanic's ear, "You should escort her inside before these people start to question to question her miraculous recovery."

Shit. _Shit._ They would sooner tear Charlie to pieces if they suspected something supernatural at work than ask questions. Dean wasn't waiting to ask questions either. As soon as Jimmy- looking oddly worse for wear- stumbles away, Dean guides Charlie through the ring of chattering onlookers toward the automotive shop. Bobby meets them with wide eyes.

"What happened?"

"What do you think, Bobby?" Dean snaps. Bobby ignores him, turning to Charlie, who sits on the cooler, face pale.

"How do you feel, Charlie?" _How are you still walking?_ Dean knows is what he means.

"Like I got hit by a car?" She pauses, then shakes her head. "Actually, I feel fine. Shaken, yeah, but I mean..." She looks down at her legs and shakes it. "I felt my knee crack." Her face clouds for a moment, a furrow creasing between her brows before her face goes lax with something like awe. She looks up at Dean. "Where did your friend go?"

"Jimmy?" Dean frowns. "Charlie, we have more to worry about-"

"Dean, I could have sworn that when- well, when he- he touched me, here," she gestures to her temple, "I felt something weird and- and I felt better."

Dean blanches. He must not have heard her correctly. "What?"

"Charlie..." Bobby cautions. The implications of her words are substantial, but she doesn't take the hint.

"I swear it, Bobby. I was in horrible pain, and then he just..." She trailed off when she saw the guarded looks on their faces. "You don't believe me? Look." She picks up the dirty rag from where Dean had tossed it and vigorously scrubs at the bloodied side of her face with it, amid protests from the two men. A second later they both silence in shock.

Beneath the blood, there is no wound.

Dean's head is pounding; his skull suddenly feels a size too small. He swallows with difficulty. "You don't think..?" He trails off, finishing his sentence seeming needless. He can see in their eyes they've reached the same conclusion as he.

"That man is something, alright," Bobby says quietly, "and he's been staying in your house."

~~~

Dean ascends the stairs slowly, contemplative and anxious. It had taken a lot of convincing on his part to keep Bobby from immediately calling the authorities, or from flagging down the nearest patrolman to haul Jimmy away. 

If Jimmy truly had healed Charlie, he couldn't be human. Unless maybe he just had powers, like psychics or telekinetics did? Whatever the case, Dean had to be careful going forward. Not many creatures were friendly; in fact, all of them were executable under the law just for existing. That was the very reason Dean had begged Bobby not to make the call.

"Find out what he is, and if he means any harm," Bobby had said gruffly, "or I'll make sure he gets gone." Dean had agreed uneasily, even though he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe his guest was anything other than a troubled human army recruit skirting the draft like so many others. He hadn't been lying to Bobby earlier; he liked the guy, even if he was a little awkward and strange. The house felt a little less cold and empty with someone else around.

He desperately wants for this whole thing to have been one huge misunderstanding, but one thing was for certain; Charlie hadn't healed herself.

Dean opens the front door and steps inside. The lights in the living room and kitchen are off, everything silent save for the hum of the refrigerator. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over a chair as he quietly enters the living room, takes a deep breath, and walks to Jimmy's bedroom door.

He hesitates with his knuckle raised, about to rap on the door. It's quiet; actually, it's silent. Jimmy must be asleep, which is a rare occurrence in-and-of itself. It would be the perfect opportunity for him to nose around, make sure nothing seemed out of the ordinary before he confronts him.

Dean retrieves a lock-pick from his bedroom before returning, now in his socks to tread more softly, to crouch at Jimmy's bedroom door. He unlocks the door easily and slowly swings it open, wincing at the low whine that emits from the hinges. Dean stands and steps carefully into the room.

Jimmy is laying on his stomach on top of the covers, arms folded under his head. Though it's dark in the room, Dean can just barely make out the shapes of his coat and shirt strewn across the footboard, shoes peeking out from under the bed, hair tousled. Something metallic, about the length of his forearm, lays in the sheets near his shoulder, glinting in the low lighting. 

On his back, near each shoulder blade, his eyes are drawn to two unnatural protrusions.

Dean's blood runs cold; without thinking he flips on the light.

Jimmy snaps awake, assessing the situation quickly and flipping over to his his bared back, but the damage is done. Dean has seen them.

Dean has seen the fragmented remains of wings sticking awkwardly from his back.

What's left of _angel_ wings sticking from his back.

"Holy shit," Dean breathes, hand still frozen on the light switch. Stunned green eyes mesh against alarmed blues. For a moment he stands, paralysed, his brain crashing like the crappy computer Charlie has reworked down at the shop; when Jimmy, or the angel, or _it_ opens its mouth to speak, he turns on his heel and hurtles back towards his room.

"Dean, wait!" the angel calls behind him in a scratchy, sleep-ridden voice. He hears a thump as the angel flings itself out of bed to chase him, but he's already on his knees dragging out the gun compartment beneath his bed. When the angel reaches his doorway he's already whipped it out, safety released and hammer pulled back; the barrel is lined up with the angel's still bare chest. 

It looks surprised to see the gun, but it doesn't stop; only pauses for a moment in the door, holding both hands up in an attempt at a disarming manner.

"Dean, please." Its voice is quiet, thin, pleading.

"Stay back!" Dean taps the side of the gun with his forefinger threateningly. The angel's lips fold into a thin line.

"Bullets won't kill me."

Dean swallows thickly but doesn't drop the gun. "Thanks for the PSA. I'll take my chance, thanks. Back up."

"Please, just let me..." Jimmy- no, not Jimmy, the _angel_ wearing a _vessel_ \- looks distraught for a moment before it pulls its expression back into neutrality. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, but it was never my intention to hurt you. It was in honesty that I told you I had nowhere else to go."

"Who are you?" Dean's voice is as steely as his grip on the revolver. "I mean really. You definitely ain't Jimmy Novak, that's for sure."

The angel stiffens, then sighs as its shoulders slump, looking defeated. Despite this, he- it- stills regains the air of composure and regality always accompanying him- it. The angel ensnares Dean's eyes with his own, something crushing and broken darkening the bright blue of its stolen irises.

"I am Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord."


End file.
